


let's play a love game

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Semi-Public Sex, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Talking, Tropes, calling people on their bullshit, lokipologies, no seriously really ridiculous tropes ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thor and the Warriors Three are captured, Sif and Loki set out to save the day. For my "pretending to be a couple" square on Cottoncandy Bingo; it does what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's play a love game

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers** : All characters belong to Marvel Comics & various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun. Title is from a Lady Gaga song; I didn't have anything to do with that, either. 
> 
> **A/N** : This is full of tropey ridiculousness and it is, as always, very important to note that a) this is movieverse canon and b) I play fast and loose with canon on a good day, so please disregard any continuity errors with the comics since this ain't that story, &c. This is an AU and set pre-canon, waaaaaaaaaaay pre-canon: Thor doesn't even have Mjolnir yet (and this story ignores any and all comics canon about when in his life that might have occurred).

Of all the realms to which they have journeyed over the years, this expedition to the furthest reaches of Alfheim thus far ranks among the worst, at least in Sif's estimation. Not only did they lose the battle when they were ambushed, but to add further sting to that insult, Thor and the Warriors Three were captured and have been taken she knows not where. 

And so now here she is, separated from all the others save Loki, who seems only vaguely concerned about the fate of their friends and his brother. There is a settlement nearby, and it would be the most likely place to begin seeking them out, but Loki's response to her urgent suggestions that they go there immediately, weapons drawn, demanding answers, has thus far been entirely noncommittal. 

"If you will not go with me, I am not afraid to go alone," she says finally, frustrated by his nonchalance. 

"Hold a moment, will you please? We cannot simply take the village by storm," he says, in that condescending tone he adopts when he's being particularly insufferable. Not for the first time on this excursion, she misses the days of their youth, before he must have decided that a warrior's path was somehow beneath him, before she heard that patronizing note in his voice more often than not, especially on the rare occasions he took Thor's invitations to crusade around the Nine Realms with them again. 

"Speak, then," she says, the words tight in her throat. Her fingers curl up to meet her palms, clenched into fists that she wishes she could use on him.

"What do you know of these smaller settlements in Alfheim?" 

"I know that anyone would have to be a fool to dwell here," she snaps, gesturing around at the barren land that surrounds them, so different from the lush bucolic scenery that makes up the rest of this realm.

"I do not disagree," he shrugs. "But I have encountered some texts on these people before, and their customs are not our customs, Lady Sif; I do not think they will not tolerate the presence of a lady warrior." 

"They will tolerate _me_ ," she says, her fingers tight around her the grip of her sword. 

He sighs, tired and long-suffering, and she takes a breath. "We need these people to trust us, if we are to gain any valuable information." 

Sif watches him carefully for a moment, shifting about on the hard ground beneath her boots. "What exactly are you proposing?" 

"Appropriate word choice, my lady," he says, a hint of a smile on his face, and her eyes widen when she understands his purpose.

"No," she says flatly. "Absolutely not." 

"It's only an _illusion_ ," he says, waving his hand, and damn him and his charms, she does crack a smile at that. "You can trust me to do that well, at least. You won't even have to put aside your armor." 

"If you are lying to me about this--" she begins, but he shakes his head.

"Lady, if I were lying, surely it would sound sweeter," he remarks. 

"So it would," she sighs, thinking of their friends and hoping this little ploy of his will soon have them reunited and toasting their victory in the warm welcoming halls of Asgard. "Very well." 

"Shall we?" he says, and offers her his arm. 

+

Unfortunately, for once it seems that Loki has told all truth and no lies: the inhabitants of the village look at her strangely, and even with Loki's magic disguising her armor, she feels exposed and vulnerable. Though she tries her best to glide along the ground like a lady dressed in court finery, everything about this situation has her shoulders taut and her muscles tense, and she knows that her stride is the brash gait of a warrior and not the demure step of a noblewoman. She frowns, increasingly uncomfortable, and his hand intercepts hers before she can unconsciously reach down to her hip to curve it over the invisible yet reassuring pommel of her sword. She cheats a look over at him, grimacing. "I do not like this," she murmurs.

"Nor do I," he agrees, his fingers brushing light and cool against her hand, a brief and unexpected comfort before they must come to a halt in front of a party of villagers. 

Her eyes are downcast, but she is counting their weapons all the same, and even the ill-concealed axe underneath the cloak of the tall man at the back of the group does not escape her attention. She almost snorts with derision at the abysmal attempt at camouflage, but instead she concentrates on mapping out the easiest points of egress as a man steps forward from the crowd. 

"We do not often host travellers from the Realm Eternal," the man says, speaking only to Loki, barely even acknowledging her presence. "I fear you may find our accommodations somewhat lacking, my Lord...?" 

"Lord Balder of Asgard," Loki answers smoothly, and Sif would laugh aloud were it not for the way he says it, imperious and proud, as though it were a royal proclamation instead of a name. 

Of course, she considers, it might as well be, though she rarely thinks of Loki or Thor as the princes that they are, and even more rarely does she call them by their titles. Sif has known them both for so many long years, since they were all only children; she has fought with them and taken oaths with them, but never has she truly felt that either of them were anything more than her friends. Here, though, Loki is entirely regal, every bit the prince he was born to be, and the warrior's oaths that demand her loyalty and her respect nearly push her to her knees, hand over her heart, out of deference to the ring of nobility in his voice. 

And glad she is of it at the moment, as it seems to do the trick, so to speak, with the townspeople: even without watching them, her instincts tell her she can relax, if only slightly. 

"And this is my wife, the Lady Sigyn," Loki continues, and damn him for that, she very nearly does laugh, but she slips her hand into his when he offers it and stays steady. She even manages to bend and bow in a manner approaching a proper curtsy without laughing, though she knows it is not a smile but a grimace that curves her lips when the leader of the villagers speaks again.

The leader wrings his hands and bows a bit, and then frowns apologetically at Loki. "We are honored by your presence, of course, my lord, but I fear we must beg your cooperation during your stay: we understand that the Realm Eternal has a different view of what behavior is, shall we say, acceptable?" 

Women are seen and not heard here, he intends to say, and while Sif takes his meaning quite clearly, she very nearly opens her mouth to demand that he tell her directly instead of dancing around the point. But Loki gives her the briefest look of warning and squeezes her hand tightly, and she remains silent for the sake of their friends, though she does subtly dig her nails into Loki's palm at appropriate intervals. 

"We have been apprised of the situation," Loki says, and Sif nods curtly, her jaw set and her lips thin and tight. There again comes the gentle brush of his thumb over her knuckles, reminding her that it is only a game they are playing, and she settles back into her role. It is somewhat confusing that he is bothering to comfort her at all; he has not done so since they were children. But she supposes it is his life as well, and the smoother this goes the better for them both and the better for their comrades. 

"We appreciate your cooperation," the man says, still speaking to Loki and not to her. She closes her eyes briefly, envisioning the ease with which she could disarm all of them and leave them sprawled helplessly on the ground beneath her. She meditates on that image for a moment before opening her eyes again, and when Loki notices her expression he gives her the smallest knowing smile before turning his attention back to the villagers. 

She listens to the rest of the conversation intently, though she feigns disinterest. Little of importance passes between the leader and Loki-- there is some talk of why they are traveling in this wasteland instead of the more habitable parts of the realm, and she is grateful for Loki's quick wit and convincing lies that lend them a credible reason to remain in the village for a day or so without raising too many questions. The leader directs them to a large house, explaining that they are welcome to stay for as long as they need, though she can tell he feels he will be well rid of them, and sooner than later. With that sentiment, at least, they are in total agreement.

+

The house is dimly lit and not very well furnished, but at least their accommodations afford them a modicum of privacy in which to plan and discuss the situation. A servant shows them to a small suite of rooms and leaves them, bowing deferentially as he exits. 

Sif waits until the door closes to say anything, but before she can even utter a single word, Loki reaches out and puts his hand over her mouth. She glares at him, but he only puts a finger to his lips and paces the rooms, waving his hands around until he seems satisfied. 

"We can speak now," he says finally. 

"Well?" she demands. "Do the walls have ears, then?" 

"No, and now they cannot," he says, sinking into the chair by the window. He points down at the dispersing crowd on the street below. "I saw nothing that indicated our friends are here." 

"Oh, please," she says, rolling her eyes. "We saw what they wanted us to see and well you know it. This is the closest settlement; we both agreed it was the best place to begin." 

"I do not disagree, though I would counsel you to have some patience," he says, shrugging, and she sighs. 

"It is difficult to be patient when we do not know the fate of our friends," she says. Should Thor and the Warriors Three come to harm or worse, she will surely carry the shame of her failure with her for the rest of her days. 

"Oh, do not fear, lady, I am certain that we will find them alive," he says, studying the state of his hands as though he has not a care in the world. "Your claim to the throne is safe." 

A hot rush of anger sweeps through her, and were it not for centuries of training that taught her not to launch an attack without care and consideration, he would rather swiftly find himself flying through the window and onto the cobbled street below. "What did you just say to me?" 

"I think that you heard me well enough," he says calmly, which only infuriates her further, but she has not suffered through years of Loki's snide remarks for naught, and she takes a long, slow breath and stands her ground. "Come now, surely you must know that all of Asgard has _plans_ for you and my brother." 

"I did not know that a prince of the realm deigned to listen to _common gossip_ ," she mutters. "I care not for anyone else's plans, nor do I care for what they say to one another about them." 

"Please," he drawls, "do tell me more about how little you care, lady, or else admit that I have hit my mark and accept your defeat with grace." 

"You should listen more closely, then," she snaps. "I care not for the opinions of most of Asgard, but I do care a great deal that one of my _friends_ seems to think so little of me. How can you fight beside me if you think I only walk the warrior's path to win your brother's affection? Have I failed all of you in some way?" 

"None that _I_ am aware of," he says, shifting in the chair, and at that, she will take no more of this.

"Do not presume that we all possess your dubious motives, Loki; the only person here who is chasing the throne is _you_." 

"Enough," he says, the word sharp and pointed like the blades he carries. "This argument is useless." 

She crosses her arms over her chest. "It is only useless when it becomes troublesome _for you_?" 

"I said, enough," he says, standing now and stalking over to where she stands. A younger warrior might well flinch away at the look on his face, but she is made of stronger stuff than that, and he will attempt to make her back away from this conversation at his peril. 

"Oh, I think it will be enough when you admit that I have hit _my_ mark and accept _your_ defeat with grace," she parrots. He is not the only one here who can wage war with words as well as weapons, and she is glad enough for the chance to throw these back at him, though she wishes their conversations of late did not always devolve into arguments. 

"Do not even pretend to understand my trials, lady, they are hardly within your grasp," he snaps, and she takes an angry step toward him before she can stop herself. 

"Yes, of course, _my lord_ ," she says, bowing slightly, but not out of any kind of respect. "Surely all of that is well beyond me." 

"And what would you know of it?" he demands, reaching out for her, his fingers gripping her forearm tight enough to bruise. 

"What would I know of it?" she repeats, her own fingers holding onto his upper arm with no less force. "What would I know of the loneliness and the desperation you feel when you must struggle and toil for days without end to prove your worthiness to those who should have accepted it without question? Do you think I know nothing of that, of what it is to want something you are forbidden, not because you are incapable but because of arbitrary, archaic rules? You would know exactly how much of it I _understand_ , Loki, if you had not forsaken the rest of us for magic alone and treated us all as though we were _inferior_ for our training. At least they did not _laugh_ at _you_ ; your title protects you and it always will. I have no such armor, though long ago I did have a _friend_ who understood me." 

He releases her arm and makes to step away, but she holds on. She is hardly finished: these words have been locked away so tightly for too many centuries, and there is too much emotional pressure behind them to keep them reined in any longer. 

"I am a warrior of Asgard, but though I have suffered and toiled for that honor, never think I do not consider it to be one, to have earned the respect of the people I serve. Perhaps I should not have had to earn it, but nevertheless earn it I did, and now I serve the King your father and I serve our home and our people. My motives may not be as pure as the driven snow, for though I do this because I love all that I protect, not least do I do it because I am _good_ at it, and because it brings me joy. But I will not stand here and suffer your ridiculous accusations that I do it for the love of anything or anyone save Asgard herself, or the love of the rush and the glory of battle." 

"You needn't explain," he tries, but she cuts him off again. He started this and he can stand here and listen until she ends it. 

"Indeed not, and that is more of an explanation than I owe you, prince, for I owe you none at all," she adds, glaring at him. "And prince or no, if you question either my allegiance or my motivations with your wicked words again, I swear to you on my life that I will make you eat them." 

There is a tension between them in this moment that she knows all too well, and it is not born of anger or frustration but of something altogether more troubling. She hasn't felt it in years, this odd pull towards him, for the days that Loki would actually join them in sparring with any regularity are long past, but she remembers other occasions on the training grounds, when so many of their fights would end in a draw, her blade against his throat and his dagger against hers. With anyone else, she might have felt the slightest sense of shame that she hadn't won, but with Loki during those moments it was never shame that she felt, but rather a strange, heated mix of danger and need. It is the very same feeling she has now, standing here gripping his arm while he does the same to her, his fingertips pressing hard enough to cause pain, while all she can feel is the sense that this moment will end with either a kiss or a kill, and the strangely thrilling uncertainty that she does not know which it might be.

A sudden knock on the door startles them both, and he gestures dismissively toward the chair, waiting to move until she drags her eyes away from his hateful face and tromps with unrepentant stomping over to it.

As she stares spitefully out the window, Loki has a short conversation with the servant at the door, before stepping back to let him into the room. The servant carefully lays a thin bundle of garments on the bed and bows again to Loki before leaving. 

"The honor of our presence is requested at dinner," Loki says sardonically, gesturing at the clothes. "They've left you a more appropriate dress; apparently my magical tailoring leaves something to be desired. Shall I tell them that you were too weary from travel to attend, or can we suffer through a meal without trading blows?" 

For answer, she stands and steps away from the chair and picks up the dress, stalking over to the changing area and stripping out of her armor behind the screen, not out of any sense of Midgardian modesty, but only to have a brief respite from his presence. She takes her time dressing herself, grimacing at the fabric of the gown, an awful dull ochre material that is sturdy enough, but which would certainly not keep out an enemy's blade, and she eyes her sword and armor longingly before stepping out from the screen.

"Shall we?" she asks. 

"No weapons?" he queries, avoiding her question, and she frowns: there is, of course, a dagger strapped to her thigh, but she has not endured centuries of all his lies and yet learned nothing, so she seizes this opportunity to make a point, even if it is not an entirely honest one. 

"I trust _you_ ," she says, and from the twitch of his lips, she knows that he understands her point perfectly. 

"This will end well," he mutters, holding out his arm. 

"For one of us, at least," she agrees. 

\+ 

Dinner is duller than suffering through one of Fandral's many tales of his drunken debauchery. The conversation is tedious; they learn nothing, or at least, she does not, save the strange whispering undercurrent of fear that seems to plague these people, though of what she does not know, and without something more, none of that will not help them find Thor and the others. Loki, meanwhile, plays the part of the Asgardian lord with charm and grace, and despite her lingering rage over their argument, she finds that it is surprisingly easy to sit here and pretend to be his wife. He all but dotes on her, pouring her wine and leaning in to make jokes at their hosts' expense. It would be cloying and awful but for the playful way he goes about it, turning it all into a game with the same infectious enthusiasm that used to have her chasing him and Thor through the palace. She plays along now, too, laughing at his jests and even making some of her own. It is not entirely unpleasant, though the ease with which they have fallen into these roles does give rise to no small amount of melancholy, for she had not been lying to him earlier: she has dearly missed her friend. 

She does not expect an apology, but does she does hope that somewhere underneath all of the layers of malcontent, perhaps he feels the slightest bit of regret for the time they've lost. 

Midway through the meal, the leader of the village asks Loki several pointed questions about lady warriors in Asgard, and she tries not to visibly tense. If they have been caught, and these people are deliberately trying to bait her, she will be glad for the opportunity to teach them a lesson, but Loki answers their questions without giving them any important information at all, and the conversation shifts back to something mundane once more. 

Loki chooses that particular moment to put his hand on hers and lean over to whisper an apology in her ear. 

"It was never my intention to abandon the rest of you," he murmurs. "Certainly I don't consider myself _above_ you." 

It is hardly truthful, so much so that she has to stifle a laugh, but false sincerity is probably the best he can do, and she sighs into her half-empty glass of mead before shifting closer so that she can answer without being overheard. 

"I know that you are lying," she says, leaning against him, "but I do appreciate the effort." 

"I am being perfectly sincere, my lady, and I am sorry," he replies, and when she looks up at him, it is indeed a good impression of sincerity, to be certain: with that face and that voice he has doubtless fooled many a being who didn't have the benefit of knowing him as well as she does. 

"You would attempt to do this _here_ ," she says, rolling her eyes, and he grins mischievously over at her. 

"I was hardly going to do it when you had access to weapons." 

"I have no need of weapons," she reminds him. "I am one." 

"A miscalculation on my part, perhaps," he says, looking at her shiftily, and for that momentary hesitation she is willing to put aside his transgressions for the present. 

"A _grave_ miscalculation, potentially, my lord," she says drolly, and when he laughs, that at least is real. 

\+ 

After the meal, they wander the house for a bit under the pretense of polite interest in their hosts' customs, all the while surreptitiously searching for anything that would help them find their friends. Nothing readily presents itself, and Loki's subtle interrogation of their host and hostess proves equally fruitless, so before long they return to their rooms, where Sif casts a dubious glance at the nightclothes the servants have brought for them in their absence. She wastes no time in setting them aside: she may wander their corridors in useless gowns, but she will not sleep in something that would only slow her down if she should have to wake quickly to fight, and the chilly night air against her mostly bare skin is a small price to pay for sloughing off the hindrance of her dress. 

"You said no weapons," he points out, watching her slip the dagger and its sheath from her thigh. 

"I lied," she replies cheerfully, placing the dagger on a small table near the changing area. 

"You don't trust me after all? I am utterly startled by this admission." 

"I trust you to tell me half the truth half of the time for your own amusement," she snorts. "Beyond that I trust you to hold your own on the field of battle, and to be a help to your friends when enemies surround them. Do I need to explain which manner of trust matters more to me?" 

"No," he murmurs. "And what of our friends? I fear we are no closer to a solution than we were when we first arrived." 

"These people are not responsible for whatever has happened to them," she sighs, sinking down onto the bed. 

"Indeed not," he agrees. "They are not nearly clever enough." 

"What they are is _afraid_ ," she says. "But of what, I do not yet know." 

"Nor I, but I know of no power stupid enough to move against Father like this," he says, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is only some unlucky local warlord, in over his head." 

"Or _her_ head," she corrects pointedly. 

"Just so, my lady," he says, inclining his head. "Forgive me my error, but as the lady warrior of my acquaintance would never make such a foolish mistake, it had not occurred to me to think otherwise." 

"It will take more than your silver tongue to get back into my good graces," she says, bending to take off her boots so he cannot see the smile on her face, though she knows perfectly well he can hear it in her voice even if he cannot see her face at present. 

"I was unaware I had ever been in them," he remarks. "Surely I would remember that." 

"I shall be sure to tell Fandral he has competition for his terrible jests," she laughs, but the quip only serves to remind her that they are here and their friends are not, that she has, for the present moment, failed them, and her smile fades, though he seems to misinterpret her reaction. 

"I did apologize," he says, and she can only roll her eyes. "I did! Twice, if you'll recall." 

"In a manner of speaking," she sighs, suddenly far too tired to argue the point further, and they each take up opposite sides of the large bed without further discussion. 

The room is cold, uncomfortably so, and though the walls of this house must be thin, she can hear nothing but the wind against the window and the steady quiet rustle of Loki's breathing. It should be a comfort, that she is not alone here, and to some extent it is: she does trust his magic, if not his motives. But his remarks upon their arrival here, in combination with this unexpected partnership and the strange affinity she seems to have for it, have left her unsettled and agitated, and she chases sleep in vain. 

The seconds tick slowly past. Her eyes are closed and her breath is even, but still sleep does not come, so she sighs and rolls onto her back. His breathing may be steady, but she doubts that he is asleep: the long draw of his breath is _too_ rhythmic, and though he is an expert at lying with words, but at this, he could use more practice, and she would rather talk to him than lie here and be silent. 

"If you have a strategy for tomorrow, you might consider sharing it with me," she says, staring up into the darkness of the room. 

"I might have been asleep," he replies, but there is a hint of relief in his voice that leads her to suspect that he, too, had been as mentally restless as she had been. 

"You might have been," she says, a smile curving her lips, "but you weren't talking, so I doubted it." 

He sighs, the sound of it dramatic and exaggerated, and she knows her jibe has found its target: when they were very small, she and Thor discovered that on rare occasions when overly tired, Loki talked in his sleep, a fact they had, of course, proceeded to tease him about for centuries, while Loki continued to deny that it had ever happened at all. 

"I maintain that you and Thor fabricated that story," he says, irritation and resignation to this thousand-year joke coloring his voice. 

"You think _Thor_ successfully lied to you?" she laughs. 

"Fair enough," he acknowledges, shifting a bit until he's facing her, and if she turns her head, she can just see the faint trace of a smile on his face. " _You_ , my lady, are a different matter entirely." 

"If I had wanted to lie to you," she says, turning onto her side, "I would never have involved your brother, or do you not remember the catastrophe that was our first excursion to Vanaheim?" 

"Oh, I remember," he says, just a shade too smugly, and she laughs again and reaches out to land a soft blow to his shoulder.

"I _knew_ that incident was your fault." 

"Strictly speaking, it was Volstagg's," he says, neatly deflecting her second strike at his shoulder by catching her hand as it arcs toward him. "With a little encouragement, perhaps." 

If he holds onto her hand for half a moment longer than he needs to, her only complaint is that he releases it at all. When she decided that his hand against hers was something she desired, she does not know, but suddenly sharing this sleeping space with him is more awkward than she had originally thought it would be. 

"You did talk in your sleep, though," she says at length, settling back in amongst the blankets, but on her back, not her side, avoiding his eyes. 

"I suppose I did," he replies. "How else would you have known about my little _infatuation_?" 

She smiles, remembering. "Perhaps you were not the portrait of subtlety that you thought you were." 

"We were _children_ ," he snaps.

"No one faulted you for it," she says, finding herself unusually charitable despite all the grief he's caused her today. "Better Sigyn than some insipid wallflower at court. Thor and I always wondered later why you never pressed that particular suit." 

"I grew bored of it," he says, and there is a lie in there somewhere, she suspects, but she does not know what it might be. 

"Yes, well, I suppose you married her after all," she jokes. 

"Ha." 

"Hmm. Perhaps that would stop all that useless gossip about me for a day or so," she laughs, but he does not share her mirth. 

"I very much doubt that," he says, and she can feel him moving until he is also staring at the ceiling, not at her. "They would only go from planning your life to criticizing it further, for nothing you could ever do would measure up to the life they had all envisioned for you with my brother, regardless of whether or not you wanted it, but such is the great injustice of life at court. And the rest of your days from now until Ragnarok would be filled with endless whispers of mindless chatter from sycophantic myrmidons who will forever count you as less than are because you did not choose what they valued most."

She nods, struck silent by the bitterness in his voice and the certain knowledge that his words have very little to do with her at all. What injustices he speaks of, she cannot imagine: Asgard may be weary of its younger prince's pranks, but their people are loyal to a fault and they give him the respect he is due regardless of his trickery. She would speak out, reassure him, but whatever fabricated slights he refers to could surely not be erased by goodwill, no matter how sincere. Adding to her trouble, it would surely cause another argument, and after all the strangeness that has passed between them today, perhaps the strangest yet is that she finds she has no wish to fight with him, not now, not over this. 

He is the one to speak first. "I should not have called your honor or your loyalty into question, earlier," he says, and his words are clipped and halting, almost awkward, which is unusual enough for him that she suspects, however unlikely, that he is at least attempting to be truthful. "I am sorry." 

"Loki--" She would reach her hand out, but at the moment she does not know what kind of aid or comfort she would be offering him, and the day has been odd enough without further unnecessary complications. 

"We should sleep," he interrupts, shifting around so that his back is to her once more. 

"Second in birth hardly means second best, you know," she says at length, unable to refrain from making some kind of overture: they may not have always been the best of friends, but they have nevertheless been friends for far too long for her to feel comfortable with remaining quiet.

"Perhaps not to you," he sighs. "Sleep well." 

"And you," she replies, but she knows that she will not.

\+ 

The following day brings with it the beginning of some local festival. The servants bring them more clothing, and she frowns at the laces on the traditional white gown as she attempts to do them up properly. 

"Even _your_ ridiculous armor is far less complicated than this," she laments, when he raises an amused eyebrow at her wardrobe situation. She is slightly annoyed to be the source of his amusement, but relieved that his ill humor of the previous evening seems to have been forgotten, or at least packed away for the present. "I have never understood how other people manage this at all, much less with any great speed." 

"They have servants to do it for them, or so I am given to believe," he says. 

"And are you offering, prince?" she asks, exasperated. "That is not an admission of defeat by any means, but we do need to be going." 

"Your secret dies with me," he says, smirking, and waves his hand at the laces. 

"I think this makes me something of a cheat," she remarks as the dress laces itself. "But I cannot bring myself to care. How did you come by this particular skill, anyway?" 

"A nobleman never says," he replies, feigning shock, one hand over his heart.

"Asgard's libraries must truly be extensive," she parries, and he smirks at her.

"Well played," he says, bowing slightly.

Much of the day passes without incident or clue, but then finally, around midday, they manage to extricate themselves from the crowds long enough to unearth an answer to the question of their friends' disappearance: a small party of Vanir and a whispered conversation about _prisoners_ , _Asgard_ , and _war_.

"Vanir, here?" she asks, when they are safely back in their rooms. "What can they be thinking? That war is long over." 

"Apparently not to some of the Vanir," Loki sighs. "We should return to Asgard and report to Father; this is much more complicated than we had thought." 

"We cannot abandon our friends," she insists. "If this is indeed some faction of the Vanir attempting to spark another conflict, we must act quickly, or else I fear Thor's head will reach Asgard before we do." 

"If that is so, lady, what makes you think they have not sent it onward already?" 

"Do you truly care so little? He is your _brother_ , Loki, if it were you in his place Thor would uproot Yggdrasil itself to get to you." 

"And learn absolutely nothing of value in the process," he says stubbornly, though she can see the vaguest hint of color in his cheeks, so she knows that he is not entirely as unaffected as he might like her to believe. "I expect a bit more dedication to strategy from _you_." 

"I am in favor of strategies, so long as they serve all of us and not one alone," she says pointedly, and he sighs.

"Let us avoid yesterday's tired refrain, shall we? This has nothing to do with any of that." 

"Of course it does," she says, and he looks up at her, his expression wounded and hurt. On anyone else, it would give her pause, but not with him, not now. 

"Do you think so little of me?" 

" _That_ is your response?" she says, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it all, that he expects her to believe this particular falsehood. He actually looks _surprised_ for a half a barely perceptible moment, so she takes a chance and adds, "Do not insult my intelligence, Loki, that wasn't even a _good_ lie." 

Her gamble works: his eyes widen a bit, but his lips start twitching as though he's trying not to grin. He looks almost _pleased_ to have been caught in a lie, and it occurs to her to wonder if anyone has ever actually refused to accept his falsehoods before now. 

"Well," he says, his voice well nigh mirthful, with absolutely no trace of the sadness that had haunted it only moments before, "perhaps the thought had occurred to me once or twice." 

"Once or twice," she repeats, and at his answering nod, she only raises an eyebrow, crosses her arms over her chest, and awaits what he conveniently forgot to say. 

"Once or twice...an hour, since they were captured," he amends, "but my point still stands." 

"Did you have a point?" 

"We cannot conquer an army alone, Sif, though I would not lay odds against you claiming victory over most of them on your own." 

Her face warms at the compliment, but she does not let herself be distracted by flattery. "If we return to Asgard now, we have only half a story for the Allfather, and nothing more to show for it. We cannot even guess how many Vanir are _here_ , nor do we know for certain that Thor and our friends are yet living." 

He frowns. "Your point is that we should stay because we would look foolish and cowardly if we return now?" 

"And it would be the right thing to do, and because they would do it for us, were we the ones who had been captured," she adds, nodding. 

"For you, perhaps," he says, but he continues before she can protest. "And as you may have surmised, I am not overly concerned with doing the _right_ thing." 

"It would make you look better," she suggests. 

"That was a judicious application of strategy, wasn't it," he murmurs, and she shrugs, not terribly concerned with using his own weapons against him so long as it is useful. 

"Did it work?" 

"I suppose," he says, after a few moments of calculating thought. "However. . ." 

She sighs. "However?" 

"If you enjoyed playing my wife so much, you might have just said," he teases, and there is something in his smile that she might charitably call _longing_ , but it isn't something she is familiar with, not from him, so she disregards it for the moment and knocks her shoulder against his in a friendly way, then changes the subject entirely. 

"We will have to fight," she says, looking with no small amount of longing herself at her weapons languishing next to the orderly pile of their armor. 

"I know," he agrees, "but I would rather not fight a cadre of villagers in addition to whatever is holding our friends and my brother. We need a _distraction_." 

"The conclusion of the village festival will happen this evening, will it not?" 

"It should provide enough of a diversion to let us slip away undetected," he says, nodding along with her unspoken plan. "If we can but keep up this charade a while longer." 

"It hasn't been _so_ terrible," she says, and he gives her a sly smile before offering her his arm once more. 

"Best we return to it, then," he says, and she slips her hand around his forearm. 

"After you, husband," she smiles. 

\+ 

Women are, apparently, encouraged to enjoy the festivities as long as they are escorted, and she speaks carefully to some of the ladies, but mostly she finds that she prefers Loki's company, and she does not leave his side for much of the evening. It helps, perhaps, that he keeps his hand over hers for the duration of the meal. She tells herself firmly that she isn't enjoying that, but she has far less skill as a liar than he, so it is with little regret that she follows him into a curtained alcove when he beckons to her. 

"I fear we are in danger of being discovered," he informs her quietly. "I have heard...whispers." 

"As have I, but what now? I have been attempting to comport myself in a _manner becoming a lady_ ," she says, imitating one of the especially rulebound older villagers, who had treated both of them to an excruciatingly long lecture over luncheon.

"And you have done admirably," he says, grinning fiendishly as he leans in to add, "wife." 

"Yes, thank you, _husband_ , but what more can we do? Have we not given them enough of a show?" she demands, irritated by the need for all this subterfuge when she would have much preferred to have stormed the proverbial citadel single-handedly, but perhaps more irritated that _by Yggdrasil's mighty roots_ , she finds that she misses the heat of his hand against her own. 

He waves a hand at the scene the revellers are making beyond the curtains. "On an evening such as this? We are from Asgard; our revels are the stuff of legend, lady. They expect us to misbehave, and _extravagantly_." 

She cannot deny the thrill that the thought of his particular brand of misbehaving gives her, nor can she deny that it is the very same kind of thrill she feels before battle, and it is with shiver born of anticipation that she drops her voice and murmurs, "Did you have a particular kind of extravagance in mind, my lord?" 

"Forgive me," he says, his voice barely a whisper, and before she can even look at him for an explanation he has her against the wall, all her warrior's instincts fighting against an entirely different set of impulses as he presses the length of his body against hers and puts his lips to her ear. "I must say, I expected to be wounded by now." 

"I did not think that was the kind of display you wanted," she replies, "though I would be happy to oblige you." 

The curtains swishes open, and an embarrassed servant is treated to a throaty moan from Sif, the sound of it apparently also startling Loki, which only makes his surprise at the servant's untimely arrival more genuine. The man bows several times and hastily retreats. 

"He'll have told half the house in a few moments," she says, proud of her contribution to this small act of subterfuge.

His lips brush her ear when he speaks, and she shivers. "You are an excellent actress, my lady." 

"Oh, this has hardly been a challenge," she says, and as she says it she realizes that it has been far easier to pretend that she does want him than it may be to pretend that she does not, when finally they make their return to Asgard. 

"And what would be a challenge?" he asks, and in answer she pushes herself back off the wall and reaches up for him, kissing him with all the determination she can summon-- more than she might like to admit, she knows, but if these people need a show, then by the stars, they shall have one, and if she enjoys it a bit more than he expects her to, well, she will hardly shed a tear over _that_. His surprise, if surprise it is, is short-lived, and he returns her kiss with equal fervor, his hands exerting subtle but pleasing pressure on her hips. 

On the rare occasion she has felt the need to tumble around with someone off the training grounds, it has always been entertaining, if somewhat lacking in substance or sustainability: most of the people she's been with have been diverting but ultimately boring, no challenge, no danger, and nothing to hold her interest for more than a fleeting moment. This is nothing like any of that: these kisses are soft where those were hard and hard where those were soft, and the pressure of his lips is always changing in an unpredictable pattern that reminds her again of early days training with him and Thor, when Loki's quick footwork was the only match to her own. She does not recall exactly when the time came that he traded those days of camaraderie for the isolation of the library, but she is glad to have a worthy adversary once more, even if this is an entirely different sort of battle, and she puts all of that blessed relief into her kisses. 

And he gives it back, without doubt: all of Asgard knows of Loki and his wicked tongue, but she had no idea that his skill with words would translate so well to skill at this. His teeth graze her lip and she pushes her hips against his and kisses him harder, her fingers tangled up in his dark hair. 

He pulls back for a moment to study her face carefully. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, lady," he says breathlessly, his lips trailing against her ear, "but I will gladly play it with you." 

"Good," she says, and claims his mouth again. He wastes no time reaching for her, one hand gripping her hip while the other palms her breast, and for once, she does not miss the hard plates of her armor; this dress may not stop a blade, but neither does it stop Loki's skillful fingers. She pushes her own hands under the thin material of his tunic to the smooth skin beneath, trailing her nails lightly over the hard plane of his stomach. He groans, albeit quietly, and she breaks off a kiss to grin up at him, victorious, though only for a moment: he seems to take her expression as a challenge, and before she can think of a suitable rejoinder he lifts her with surprising ease, wrapping her long legs around his waist as he pushes her back flush with the cold stone of the wall behind them. It occurs to her, as his mouth moves slowly down the line of her neck, that she has never been more at his mercy; knowing Loki as she does, the thought should chill her to the bone, but curiously it only makes all of this more exciting. 

If this is a challenge, he can have this round and she will not feel that he was the only victor, she decides, when she feels his hand slide up the inside of her thigh underneath her dress. She shivers and grips his shoulders tighter, stifling the desperate moans she longs to release as his fingers expertly tease and stroke until she's panting against his mouth. From the hitch in his breath and the hard line of his cock brushing her thigh, she knows she is not the only one finding it difficult to be silent. 

He teases her until she is no longer certain whether she wants to scream his name or pummel him, and just when she's nearly convinced that it's the latter, his fingers suddenly still and she can feel him shift to reach for the buckle of his trousers. 

"Finally," she mutters, and he has the temerity to laugh, the sound of it low and dark in her ear. 

"You really do need to learn some patience," he says. 

"If you were planning to teach me, do please delay the lesson that I may _practice patience_ awaiting it," she says, digging her heels into his backside to emphasize the urgency in her command, and blessedly, for once, he leaves an opportunity to annoy her, which she takes to mean he is as tired of waiting as she is. Still, he does manage to retain enough self-control to push into her as slowly as possible, and she can only grit her teeth and plan her revenge until _finally_ , he begins to move against her in a steady rhythm until all her frustration turns to pleasure, and she has to bite down against his shoulder to keep from making too much noise. If it hurts, he does not seem to mind: she hears him mutter a muffled oath and then her name and then he stills, neither of them moving except to draw breath. 

"Surely," she says, breathing deeply as she finds the floor with her feet, "you do not expect us to go back out there and sit with those people." 

"I'll make our excuses," he says, carefully rearranging his clothing before he disappears into the great room, not that it matters: his face is flushed, his eyes are bright, and she's left teeth marks at the joint between his neck and shoulder, so anyone who sees him will know exactly what he's been up to, but then, that was the point, really. 

Well. Strictly speaking, they needn't have actually _done_ anything, but as she leans against the wall, waiting for her breath to level off and her blood to stop singing at her for more, she regrets none of it. 

He returns after a moment and offers her his arm, saying loudly, "Shall we retire, my lady?" 

She rolls her eyes, but she takes his arm. She even gives him an, "As my lord wishes," as they turn to ascend the stairs to their room. 

+

They don't speak again until the door is closed and the spell is cast to Loki's satisfaction. 

"Well. That should, hmm, placate them," he says, and she settles into the chair by the window momentarily, watching him. 

He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, and she hides a smile behind her hand: she's seen Loki in a variety of moods over the long centuries of their acquaintance, but never before has she seen him quite so flustered, and she finds it oddly endearing. 

"We can do nothing but wait until the last ceremony of the festival begins, of course," he adds, rubbing his hands together. He looks to be about half a moment from pacing, and she wonders if she should let him, just to enjoy a little sweet revenge for all the time he took earlier, but the memory of that gives rise to a whole host of interesting thoughts about what they might accomplish given several hours and a bed, and she decides that there will be time to exact revenge when they return to Asgard. 

"Of course," she agrees. Slowly, she unfolds herself from the chair and saunters over; he watches her every move, wary but clearly interested. "Whatever shall we do to pass the time?" 

He raises an eyebrow. "Did you have an idea?" 

"Several," she says, pulling at the laces on the front of her ridiculous dress. "I believe you mentioned something about learning the value of patience?" 

If he suspects some manner of trick, he wisely does not say so, which in her estimation is enough to earn him another kiss before she steps back and slips the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor around her feet. 

"That," he says, "was dreadfully impatient of you." 

"Teach me patience, then," she says, walking backwards on her toes until she can drop lightly onto the edge of the bed. After a moment, he follows, bending to kiss her, his arms braced on either side of her until her persistent fingers distract him sufficiently, and he pulls back. 

"Did you want something?" he asks, amused, and she tugs frustratedly on the hem of his tunic. "If I am to teach you anything about patience, you must understand that I can hardly give you everything you want when you want it." 

"Take it off," she says, her voice overly sweet, "or I rip it off." 

"I think I might enjoy that," he says, smirking, but he complies with her request nevertheless. 

"That's a considerable improvement," she remarks, and she means it: the lean lines of his body are not at all unpleasant to look upon or to touch. 

"Not a warrior's body, I know," he says quietly, and she frowns as she undoes the belt that holds his trousers on his lithe frame. 

"You may not think so," she says, skimming her hands over his skin, tracing the curves and lines of old scars, "but your body tells a different story." 

"Does it now," he murmurs, his eyes following the movement of her hands with a serious intensity that belies the easy tone of his voice.

Sif runs her thumb over his ribs. Asgard's healers may be some of the best in nine realms, but even they cannot erase all evidence of old hurts, especially those that have been allowed to fester, and she remembers his comments from the previous evening and wonders how long he has suffered from those particular wounds, real or imagined. She cannot heal them-- that will be up to him-- but she can at least provide a momentary distraction.

"Svartálfaheim," she says, naming the place of the skirmish that earned him this particular wound. "Rogue band of what, dwarves? Fandral's fault. Again." 

"So it was," he says, eyes wide in surprise. "You remember my scars?" 

"I think I gave you some of them," she laughs, and at this close distance she does not miss the shadow that crosses his face. For distraction, she curves her fingers up and over another small knot on his shoulder. "An earlier visit to this realm, was it not? Trolls, and you were the hero of that particular story, as I recall." 

"Occasionally my little magic tricks are of some use to the rest of you," he demurs, but there is a note of pride in his voice that is impossible to miss. 

"More than occasionally," she says. Her hand travels up the line of his neck to his face, the gesture slightly more tender than she had intended when she reached up for him, but now that she's done it she commits to it, and to whatever this is along with it. The pressure of her fingertips is gentle and light on the proud high bones of his cheek, and when he bends to kiss her again, pushing both of them down onto the bed, the kiss is long and slow and soft. 

If this kiss is a lie, it is one of his finest, and she sighs when his lips leave hers. 

"I think," he says quietly, pausing to kiss his way down her neck and collarbones, "perhaps, Lady Sif, you are not without some knowledge of the value and practice of patience."

"Perhaps I am also not without some knowledge of lying to get what I want, either," she replies, and she feels his answering smile against the curve of her breast. They hardly have all the time in the world for this, but she is loath to tell him to hurry, not when his excellent mouth is occupied with something other than talking for once, though not for long: his lips move away from their delightful teasing work on her breasts and slide briefly over a scar on her ribcage. 

"Vanaheim," he says, tracing the scar with one long finger. 

"I am not the only one with a long memory," she says, watching through her lashes as his fingers linger momentarily on her ribs before sliding back across to her breasts. 

"No," he admits, moving slowly down her body, "but perhaps I am responsible for some of these." He stills for a moment, thoughtful, and looks back up at her, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns against the thin sensitive skin covering her hips. 

"Did you forget what you were about? I can give you orders, if you like," she suggests. 

"Did I truly leave you, all those years ago?" he asks, and she frowns for a moment, confused, but then she recalls her angry remarks from the day before, the sadness and the regret that lay beneath the anger at the memory of what used to be, long before he left them all for books and magic, before he left her to fend for herself on her quest to prove herself as worthy a warrior as any of their friends.

"Yes," she says softly, her toes flexing against the line of his thigh. "You did." 

"Forgive me," he says. "I did not know you wanted me to stay." 

She does not know whether this is a genuine apology or whether she desperately wants it to be one, but at the moment, she decides that either way it matters very little to her, and she sits up so she can lean down to reach for him, kissing him fiercely, putting into it all her resentment from the last several centuries and all her relief at its passing. They pull back, both breathless, and he rests his forehead against hers for a minute before pushing her gently backwards so he can drop his mouth to the top of her leg, nuzzling at a jagged scar above her knee. 

"Svartálfaheim," he says, his breath tickling her thigh before he presses his lips against the scar. "More trolls." 

"That was such a stupid error," she sighs, thinking of that day and all the trouble that came with it.

"I think the error was theirs, lady; I would not tempt your wrath even though you were wounded." 

"Liar," she says, laughing, and looking up, he gives her a smile and a wink, not at all ashamed of his behavior. "You've tempted my wrath often enough, Loki." 

"But at least you remember the scars," he jokes. 

"So I do. Now put your mouth to better use, please." 

"I suppose you deserve a reward for your lies about your considerable lack of patience," he says, the point of his nose tracing slowly against her inner thigh. 

"Only you would think so," she smiles, but then anything else she might have said is interrupted by the sudden spectacular feeling of his tongue pressing against her clitoris, and she exhales a long, slow moan, grateful that they are finally alone so that she can make all the noise she likes. As skillful as he is at this, she has quite a bit of noise to make, moaning her pleasure at every perfectly calculated slide of his tongue or pull of his mouth against her. She holds together until he combines the pressure of his tongue with the the hard curve of his fingers inside her, and after a few moments of that she's gone, lost in sensation, and she falls back against the pillows with a sigh that is still mostly a moan. 

"Patience is its own reward, I take it," he says, still kneeling between her legs, watching her with an expression that is half-smug, half-needy. 

"Hardly," she snorts, and reaches out for him. "Come here and I'll prove it." 

+

Much later, they dress again, neither of them bothering to disguise their self-satisfied glances in the other's direction. Her armor is a welcome weight, and she smiles as she dons it, gladly leaving her borrowed dresses behind at last. 

As expected, the revelry and noise of the festival provides an excellent diversion, and where it does not, Loki's magic makes up the difference, shrouding them in cloak of moving shadows that blend into the darkness of the starless night sky. In short order, they reach the entrance to the cave where they had glimpsed the Vanir that morning. 

"How many do you think there are?" she asks grimly, gripping her sword. 

"I counted seven earlier," he remarks, peering into the gloom of the cave beyond them. A groan of someone in pain echoes back up at them, and they exchange an uneasy look, for it sounded distinctly like one of their friends. 

"Trap?" she says. 

"Highly likely, but they can hardly have adequately prepared for the possibility that they will find you in it," he says, and she lifts her chin proudly as she stares past him into the cave. 

"I would say the same for you," she says, and he shakes his head.

"Reserve your compliments for the victory feast," he says, and gestures forward. "To war, then, my lady?" 

"To war, my lord," she agrees, her heart already beating faster at the prospect of a good fight. 

\+ 

If it is a trap, it is not an effective one: Loki had been correct, the Vanir were hardly ready to meet both of them in battle. They assess the situation, counting foes, and then without further need for discussion or more than a moment's silent deliberation, they attack as one, moving together in a synchronized dance that she will surely, upon time for further reflection, describe as beautiful. It is such an easy thing to fight beside him, to trust him in this much, at least, and as his daggers sail towards one group of foes while her sword flies toward another, she is hard pressed to say if she prefers fighting with him or fucking him. Both leave her sated yet aching for more, and as the last of their enemies falls onto the cold ground beneath their feet, she decides that really must convince him to visit the training grounds more often. They are already formidable; if they could but work a little more, they could be _unstoppable_. The thought of it sends a delighted shiver down her spine, and as they stand together, waiting to ensure they have eliminated all possible threats, she can feel the quick rush of the familiar euphoria that always subsumes her after a battle competing with the slow burn of uncommon lust. The only tragedy of this moment is that there is no time for her to shove him up against the wall and have her way with him, really, but surely there will be time for that later. 

"Well done, us," she says instead, looking around at the damage they have done. It is indeed an impressive sight.

"We do seem to work well together," he says, and she hums her approval as they make their way to their friends. 

\+ 

After all the plots have at last been uncovered and the battles have been fought and won, Thor insists upon a celebratory feast and will hear no excuses for anyone's absence, especially not his brother, who along with Sif is the hero of the hour. She wonders, as she listens to Thor's excited retelling of the Ballad of Sif and Loki, Scourges of Alfheim, how much more extravagant the story will become over the next several centuries. In this version they have already defeated an army of trolls in addition to the villagers and the traitorous Vanir, and she tries not to look too amused at the exaggeration, instead opting to attempt to catch Loki's attention, but he refuses to meet her eyes for the duration of the meal, though she cannot guess why. 

"Brother! Sif! You have never said, how did you manage to find us?" Thor asks. 

"Indeed, do tell the tale," Fandral adds. "I have heard that some of those small villages do not even allow women to wander the town unless they are escorted, Sif, however did you manage?" 

"I let down my hair and when they asked my name, I giggled as though I were yet a maiden and said, 'Fandral of Asgard,'" she jokes, and the others roar with laughter, even Fandral, who raises his flagon in her direction before draining its contents. 

"An excellent jest, truly," Thor laughs, pounding the table. "But be serious a moment! Tell us how you came to find us, and lead us to victory." 

"Oh, there are few lies Loki cannot tell convincingly," Sif says, looking over at her co-conspirator, who for once this evening condescends to look upon her. "Is that not so, my lord?" 

He gives her the thinnest of smiles before inclining his head in her direction. "Indeed so, my lady," he remarks, "though I would have it known that the Lady Sif is not without a talent for deception herself." 

She knows that the others will miss the barb in his words, but it does not pass her by, though she is mystified at its presence: she had thought she had made it clear, that night before the festival, how much she had missed his friendship and how glad she was to see it return, accompanied, even, by a different kind of intimacy entirely. 

Hogun, who has been quietly listening for much of the celebration, as is his usual way, carefully says, "You must have made a convincing pair, then." 

"Hold a moment," Volstagg says, looking over at Hogun and then gesturing between Loki and Sif. "The two of you? Acting the part of lovers? Surely this is another of your tricks, Loki." 

"No tricks," Loki says, though his eyes are on her as he says it. "At least, not in _my_ estimation." 

"Give us a kiss, then, and prove it!" Fandral laughs, and she raises a defiant eyebrow at Loki. 

She can tell from Loki's face that he thinks she will not rise to this challenge, as though all that passed between them in Alfheim was nothing more to her than a game. He may well play at such games, but she does not, and she does not believe he did so, and she will no more suffer this unnecessary manufactured drama of his than she would his lies. 

"Very well," she says, standing, ignoring the laughter of their friends and the astonished mutterings of the other soldiers at the nearby tables. She's never cared a whit for what anyone in Asgard thought of her decisions, and she is unlikely to begin now. That familiar tension has returned, curled tightly in her belly, and she looks only at him as she moves around the table toward him until she is standing before his chair, waiting. She gives Loki half a moment to refuse, but at the determined look in her eye he only arches an eyebrow and makes a slight motion at her with his fingers, as if to say, "Get on with it," so she does, grabbing him by the thick straps of armor and kissing him with no less fervor than she had that night in the hall, all the tension uncoiling the longer she stands there with her lips against his. When at last she steps back, staring down at him with one eyebrow raised in defiant challenge, Fandral and Volstagg are looking on in puzzled amusement, Hogun is quietly sipping his mead as though he had been expecting this to happen for centuries, and Thor is beaming brightly at them both.

"Well," she says, leaning back with a stretch and a sigh and an _obviously_ fake yawn, "It has been a trying few days, and I find that I am long overdue for a stay in bed. What say you, my lord?" 

"Truly, Lady Sif, I am also exhausted," Loki says, standing and stepping back from the table. He extends his arm out to her. "Shall I escort you hence?" 

"I believe you shall," she answers, slipping her arm through his before looking back at the table. "I fear you will have to tell further tales of our bravery in our absence, friends." 

"A hint of realism wouldn't come amiss," he says, to Thor, who only grins broadly and toasts them with his glass of mead as they walk from the hall. Loki leans down to speak in her ear. "Trolls, really?" 

"What, you don't remember the trolls?" she asks playfully, as they make their way out of the hall. "Though whether it was before or after we took on an army of Vanir by ourselves, I cannot recall." 

"With a battle like that, we must have earned a scar or two, if you'd like me to investigate," he replies, leering at her a bit. 

"I think that could be arranged," she remarks, but then, thinking of the cold nights in Alfheim and the bitter chill of his angry words in her ear, she grows serious for a moment and adds, "for I find that sometimes they are difficult to see for yourself." 

He stops walking abruptly and stares down at her, and she has played at wargames too long not to know fear when she sees it. What he fears she can only guess: certainly not fear of being discovered, for that much he does not seem to mind, but fear of being _known_ , she supposes, is an entirely different thing, and for someone who has built his house out of deceit, it must be a frightening prospect indeed. 

"Oh, lady, they're easy enough to remember," he says at last, his voice deceptively soft. 

"Only if you refuse to stop counting," she counters.

"I thought scars were something of a mark of pride for a warrior," he says, frowning. "Remembrances of the terrors we were strong enough to live through." 

"The point of carrying a scar isn't only to remember," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "It's also to learn." 

"And how do we do that, exactly," he says, as though it were not a question, even though it is, and the curious quirk of his brow confirms it. 

"I would not presume to tell you, for your scars are not my own," she says. She hopes that he hears in her words both the warning and the affirmation that she intends, for she will not carry the hurts he has invented for himself to bear, but nor will she demand outright that he let them go, no matter how she might hope for something better for her friend. 

He is quiet for the space of several heartbeats, and she finds herself holding her breath as she watches his face and waits for his response. 

"Perhaps instead you can tell me about those you earned in my absence, then," he says, holding his arm out again, and when she reaches out to take it, her fingers squeeze his arm gently, a silent expression of gratitude for his silent apology. 

"Perhaps," she agrees, sliding her hip against his as they resume their stroll down the corridor. "But it will have to be _much_ later." 

"Never fear, lady, for I know something of the value of patience," he answers, and she smiles.


End file.
